


If You Can't Say No...

by OriginalCeenote



Series: Break Up to Make Up [2]
Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Angst, Friends With Benefits, Indecisive Logan, Jealous Remy, M/M, Makeup Sex, Oneshot, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:19:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you can’t say no, just think about me. The song haunted him, niggling and repetitive, more than an ear worm. He was living it, and it was killing him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Can't Say No...

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own the X-Men fandom. Remy and Logan belong to Marvel Comics. I make no money from the writing of this story.
> 
> Author’s Note: The song lyrics belong to Lenny Kravitz, If You Can’t Say No. This song has been on my mind lately, and it spawned this oneshot.

But I don’t really want to know  
Where you’ve gone  
Or if it was better…

He felt the shift in his emotions as surely as though his own heart had skipped in his chest. He looked up only to find his lover’s eyes following her out of the room, and an ugly chill snaked its way down his back. Remy felt black dread in his heart, faced with the possibility that he had just witnessed the beginning of the end.

*

“Where y’headed, chere?”

“Out.” Logan grunted slightly in annoyance as he jerked on his boots, noticing the toes on the left were badly scuffed. Remy watched him contemplatively as he moved about the room. Logan studiously ignored him as he wandered back into his single bath, one of the few in the house, and lifted the hem of his shirt. He doused his abdomen with a spritz of aftershave and thunked the glass bottle down on the counter, making Remy wince at the loud clink, hoping he wouldn’t break it.

“Right…anywhere in particular?”

“Anywhere ya had in mind fer me t’go, Cajun?” Logan challenged, shooting him a slightly annoyed look over his burly shoulder. “I’m goin’ out. Why do ya wanna know?”

“Non. No big deal. Jus’ wonderin’, homme.” Remy abandoned the pet name, deciding Logan would only ignore it, or worse, take it as a sign of pleading. That was out of the question. 

Remy’s dark eyes ate him up, taking in the old, snug jeans that were well-broken in and soft as velvet. They molded to his muscular thighs and supple glutes like a second skin; Remy envied the denim at that moment, knowing what it was like to cover that hot, firm flesh, or to feel it rippling and straining over him.

“Don’t know how long I’ll even be out. Ain’t got much planned.”

“Harry’s?”

“Dunno.” There it was. Easy. Noncommittal. Remy sighed. “What?”

“Nut’in’.”

“Whatsamatter with ya tonight, Rem? Ya seem all antsy.” Logan allowed a hint of a smirk to grace the corner of his mouth. “Ya got PMS?”

“Fucker,” Remy huffed under his breath, but his eyes crinkled at their corners and his lips twitched.

He hadn’t invited Remy out. That was telling enough, he supposed, except that Remy didn’t have that kind of claim on him. When they went out, they went out. There was no obligation to plan their respective time around each other. Theirs wasn’t a relationship, so much as an arrangement, and a flexible one at that.

Any other lover or “plus one” would read more into watching the man they spooned against every night…no…most nights, lately, dressing for what seemed less like a random night out and more like a date.

Logan broke his reverie with a hiss of annoyance. “Shit! Fucking thing’s dull. Ya got any more?” He held up the offending Bic. Remy grunted and lunged up from the edge of the desk and hunted in the lower cabinet. “Already checked down there.”

“Non.” Remy pulled out a small Rubbermaid tub with a plastic drawer built into it. He drew it open and pulled out a new pack of the cheap blades. Logan chuckled.

“Attaboy…who’s more than a pretty face?” Before Logan could lay the blade against his jaw to clean off three days’ worth of stubble, Remy reached out and slapped his ass soundly enough to make his palm throb. “What the fuck was that for!”

“It wuz dere,” Remy shrugged. He hated being called pretty. Dimly he remembered at least three such swats from Logan over the course of the day, a makeshift game of tag that often degenerated into groping once they made it back behind closed doors. Logan slapping various members of the household in the ass was nothing new; no one raised so much as an eyebrow that Remy was the current, frequent target. His hand would be killing him for a while, but it felt good to take umbrage. His fingers itched to do it again, but he clenched them, then tucked his hands in his pockets as he leaned against the wall.

Logan continued shaving. “Ya just gonna hover over me all night like a vulture?”

“Dere a problem wit’ Remy watchin’ ya get ready, chere? Ain’t like much is still sacred,” he muttered. He wanted to back away but couldn’t. Lingering was defeating him, making him seem clingier than he considered acceptable. His lips betrayed him before he could stop the words.

“An’ mebbe Remy jus’ likes lookin’ at ya. Dat a problem?” Logan met his gaze in his reflection and his heavy black brows drew together.

“Right. And ya don’t think ya have PMS…”

“Ain’ like yer in here takin’ a shit,” Remy muttered.

“Next time I’ll leave the friggin’ door open, just fer you,” Logan countered blandly as he made faces at himself in the mirror, trying to get his upper lip with short strokes. Remy turned his back on him and headed for the bedroom door. “Where ya goin’?”

“Nowhere,” he threw over his shoulder. He was six paces down the hall when Logan called him back.

“Rem? Hey, Rem, c’mere.” He spun on his heel and wandered back inside.

“Quoi?”

“Did I get it all?” Logan turned his jaw this way, then that, revealing smooth, taut skin that was so much firmer than that of other men his age, slightly fairer than the rest of his face due to less sun exposure. He looked no less rugged, still sexy enough that Remy wanted to slap his ass again.

Or just slap him, since he was abandoning him for the night.

*

 

Remy headed downstairs, steadfastly ignoring the younger students as they darted around him, leaving Emma in their wake as she nagged them to bed. She was wearing her patented Scary Schoolmarm face, and Remy knew she was probably broadcasting visual images into the children’s minds of dire punishments if they didn’t jump into bed, stat. When she passed him, she looked weary.

“Shouldn’t you be out carousing and robbing someone blind right about now?”

“S’my night off,” he snapped. “Why? Does mademoiselle need dat much space?”

Emma winced, then tsked. “Touchy somebody, aren’t we.” She cocked her blonde head, curious. “Where’s your partner in crime?”

“Why ya askin’ Remy? I ain’ his keeper, Emma.” He forced his voice to be casual and snarky, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes, glowing like lit coals.

“I wanted to see if he could lock up for the night.”

“Becuz’ yer fingers are broken.”

“No. Because Scott’s already turned in, and I don’t feel like heading back downstairs.”

“Fine,” he shrugged easily as he turned his back on her voice, which chafed him. He hated unnatural accents; her British lilt was slightly contrived, nothing like Betsy’s when he listened to the women engage in random conversations that inevitably deteriorated into thinly veiled pissing matches.

“Might want to don a particulate mask when you have a moment, darling. Jean’s trying out a new perfume. She’s practically flooded the hall with it. Good night!” she told him cheerfully. Remy flinched.

Perfume. Emma handed him another piece of the puzzle that he suddenly didn’t want anymore. But his feet carried him down to the next level, and sure enough, he heard low music playing in the background as he passed Jean and Scott’s old suite. Scott occupied the upper left wing’s double suite until Jean could move her things back to Annandale. Once their divorce was finalized, Jean intended to take over the title of her late sister Sara’s house. There was little to keep her in the house, which, she pointed out dryly, had its share of telepaths.

Remy lingered in the hall silently, cloaking himself in the shadows as he watched the silhouette of Jean’s shoes moving back and forth beneath the crack of the door. She was humming, surprising him that she could carry a tune. Mick Jagger, in and of itself not a bad thing, but his stomach twisted. Hadn’t Logan been humming that same song in his low, rusty tones that afternoon while he worked on his bike? Remy stifled the urge to sneeze as Jean’s perfume hit him, cloying, flowery and overwhelmingly feminine. He preferred Ororo’s choice of fragrance, a more subtle essential oil blended with sandalwood and rosemary, scents that matched her body chemistry and that developed beautifully with the warmth of her skin.

Against his better judgment, he waited. 

Wouldn’ hurt t’lock up right ‘bout now…

…ain’ no reason why Jeannie can’t lock up. Remy ain’ de one goin’ out.

He stopped the argument he was beginning to have with himself as the door was yanked open. Jean doubled back to her stereo to turn it off and click off the light before she even glanced into the hall. Remy held his breath at the swirl of red skirts he saw flicker back past the doorframe. Then her heels clicked back over the hardwood floor as she emerged from her suite with her small handbag tucked under her arm.

Remy’s mouth went dry. She was beautiful, garbed in a snug crimson sheath with a wrapped waist and short sleeves. The neckline was a deep V and the bodice lovingly cupped high, round breasts that were unfettered by a bra. She wore her hair down in loose waves, wanton and blown out, and her only jewelry was a handful of thin gold bangles around her slender wrist. Her wedding rings were nowhere in sight. She smiled to herself as she locked her door behind her, and Remy noticed mischief in her green eyes, something brazen and self-satisfied that hadn’t reared its head for a long time.

She whirled around to head for the elevator and caught sight of Remy. “OH! Shit! Remy, I didn’t even hear you, you were as quiet as a little mouse.”

“Neh,” Remy shrugged. “Somehow Remy doubt dat, chere,” he offered. Once again, his smile didn’t reach his eyes, but it didn’t seem to bother her.

“Okay,” she chuckled. “I was so busy getting ready, and I had my music turned up. I didn’t hear anyone even go by from out here.”

“Look nice,” he agreed. She beamed.

“That’s sweet.” He walked along with her as she headed to the ground floor. “Are you staying in, Rem?”

“T’ought I might curl up wit’ a good book. Also got a Tim Burton marathon callin’ my name.”

“Don’t you just love ‘James and the Giant Peach?’” she chirped. “I love the special effects.”

“T’ink it wuz some of de darker ones, actually,” Remy clarified. “Sleepy Hollow, Edward Scissorhands, de first two Batman flicks…”

“Ugh…you’re on your own,” she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

No shit. Remy huffed a laugh as the elevator reached the ground floor with a ding. Remy followed her into the kitchen, where she paced nervously and helped herself to a glass of water. Remy watched her drink it in long, smooth gulps, working it down with the taut muscles of her long neck. She eyed him thoughtfully as she sucked a drop from her lip; she’d painted them in a deep, luscious cherry.

Remy wanted to shake her.

“Got anyt’in special planned tonight, chere?”

“Oh…no. Nothing special. Just dinner. Maybe a drink or two.”

Like Hell. And Remy’s Colonel fuckin’ Sanders and whistlin’ Dixie. He prayed his psychic shields were holding up, but he knew his emotions were strained and leaking, and Jean was more empathic than he was.

“It’s just nice to go out with an old friend. I haven’t in a long time.”

“Oui?”

“Yup. It’s been a dog’s age. I feel so out of it,” she grinned. “It’s weird taking myself down off the shelf, y’know? I wanna call myself back in the game, but I feel like I’ve forgotten how to play.”

“Ya ain’t old,” Remy pointed out. “Blush ain’t worn off de rose yet, petit.”

“Scamp,” she scolded. Jean wasn’t a day over thirty, but a brief glance at the contents of her dresser one day while he and Logan helped Scott move his heavier boxes from their old suite told him that Jean was very age-conscious in her grooming. No one really needed six different kinds of moisturizer, toner or firming cream. Not really.

They shared a few more tense, silent moments in the kitchen before Remy heard the elevator ding down the hall. His scalp tightened. Jean’s eyes brightened.

Logan’s heavy footsteps thudded down the hallway, and Jean turned away from Remy for a moment, smoothing her palms over her dress and checking her hair in the window, smiling at her reflection.

“Hey, Jeannie, are ya ready…yet…” Logan’s voice faltered as both redheads stared at him, pinning him in the doorway. Both looked expectant, but one looked wary. He mentally shrugged as he let his eyes roam over a curving red silhouette and killer pair of legs. Logan held out his hand. “Ready, darlin’?” he repeated. Jean’s face lit up.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Ready, Freddie.” She looped her arm through his in blatant possession. 

Remy burned with jealousy, even as he argued to himself that it didn’t matter. 

What now, mon ami? Wan’ Remy t’give ya a curfew? Stomp my foot? Logan looked at him quizzically, and Jean’s smile held a hint of impatience.

Logan surprised them both with his next request.

“Darlin’…do me a favor, Jeannie, and wait in the front hall fer me a sec.”

“Oh…did you forget something? I can go back up with you if-“

“Nah,” Logan assured her quickly, patting her hand that was curled around his forearm before he disengaged himself. “Just a quick minute.”

“Oh. Okay.” She offered him a limp smile as she crept out of the kitchen. Both men waited until the echo of her footsteps faded and wandered around the corner of the hall. The look between them was charged and mutually accusing, demanding unfeasible answers.

“What’s yer deal, Cajun? Huh?”

“Remy ain’ got a problem. Jus’ gonna kick back. Ain’t holdin’ ya back, am I, mec?”

Logan’s brows drew together. “Are ya?”

“Non,” he shrugged. Inside a voice screamed Yes, goddamnit! Get back up those stairs and take off those damned tight pants!

“This botherin’ ya?” Before he could protest, Logan interjected with “’Cuz it shouldn’t.”

“Mebbe it ain’t bot’erin’ Remy. Yer a grown man, homme.”

“That ain’t what I’m askin’. And that ain’t what ya mean. No bullshit, Rem: Does my going out with Jeannie tonight bother ya?” Remy’s jaw was set and his normally sensual, slightly full lips were drawn in a thin, hard line.

“Should it?” It was a loaded question, passive aggressive and gave Logan precious little, yet cried out so much. He was baiting him.

Logan despised traps.

He sighed heavily and folded his arms across his chest. Remy unconsciously adopted the same posture as Logan spoke. “Nah. It shouldn’t. Rem…Jeannie and I go way back. We’re friends. Have been for a while. She’s lonely. She’s fresh offa’ havin’ the ink dry on her divorce papers, and she’s feelin’ insecure-“

“Merde,” Remy spat. “De hell she’s insecure. Not in dat come-fuck-me dress, she ain’t.”

“Watch yer mouth,” Logan hissed. “She wore it ta please herself.”

“You like it,” Remy accused. “Ya like her. Ya always have, mec. Remy ain’ blind.” Logan tsked and grumbled unintelligibly under his breath. He made a talk-to-the-hand gesture that only served to piss Remy off. “Ya still ain’ over Jeannie.”

“Ain’t over what?” Logan scoffed. “That ship’s sailed, Rem. What, ya think I’ve been spending all this time sweatin’ her, waitin’ in the wings ta play second fiddle? Ta One-Eye? Get real!”

It was so hard to bite back the angry flood fighting its way up from his chest. Remy’s cheeks darkened slightly and his red-on-black eyes bore into Logan. Logan plowed on, as much to convince himself as Remy. “Don’t know why ya’ve got yer feathers ruffled, kid. She’s just a friend.” He threw up his hands and let them fall. “And so’re you.” He walked out of the kitchen, turning his back on him. “There ya go,” he pronounced levelly. “No problem.”

*

Remy lied about his plans for the night. He ignored the television and the monotony of his book for the dark, empty silence of his room.

Their room, if he had to admit it. He sat in the middle of the empty bed, leaning back against the headboard. He automatically went for the deck of cards on the side table. Remy retrieved Logan’s spare, battered black Stetson and up-ended it at the foot of the bed. With careless grace and precision, he slowly flipped the cards into it one by one. The smooth, cool feel of the cards was comforting in his grip as he released each one and watched them cleave the air, landing in the hat with soft, almost indiscernible taps. 

Absently he paused long enough to grab the remote, but this one operated the modest stereo across from his computer desk. The treble, bass and balance indicator bars danced and flickered as he made his selections of the discs in the carriage. Remy was in the mood for Lenny; sometimes the older, more established and seasoned artists had a better knack for penning songs to feel sorry to.

If you can’t say no, just think about me. The song haunted him, niggling and repetitive, more than an ear worm. He was living it, and it was killing him. Remy left the volume low, letting it underscore the low ticks of the clock. She’s just a friend. And so’re you.

What the hell was that all about? Remy felt like Logan had punched him…even gutted him and shown him his innards. His cavalier tone and the vagaries of what he said were what he knew would keep him up all night.

Fine, then. Remy was a “friend with benefits.” That being said, what the hell kind of friend did that make Jean?

*

The first time he’d let him take him was after Logan came back from Japan, haggard and cranky as a wet cat. Greetings from his teammates were cautious and undemanding; his dark, bloodshot eyes looked ruined and resigned. The emotions rolling off of him were like nails on a chalkboard, sharp, painful, stabbing and as hard to observe as to actually experience. Remy shivered, looking up from the newspaper as Logan strode in through the foyer, barking at everyone in the near vicinity to leave him the fuck alone.

Against all common sense, Remy followed him upstairs, stopping first in the kitchen to grab a couple of Molsons. It was easy to find him; he simply followed the trail of hushed voices and worried looks in each corridor and as he marched up the steps. Remy approached his room and let himself in without knocking, thereby taking his life in his hands. Remy was always a gambling man, after all.

Without even turning around to face him, Logan growled “Are ya outta yer fuckin’ mind?”

“Non. Kinda surprised I ain’t by now, ‘dough, mec. Can feel de vibe yer givin’ off a mile away.”

“Ignore it and it’ll go away.”

“De same can’t be said fo’ Remy,” he countered. Logan was contemplating a gleaming, antique samurai blade hanging from wooden brackets on his wall, almost musing over his reflection in the lovingly polished metal.

“I ain’t in the mood.”

“Yer mood says different.” Remy leaned the edge of the bottle cap against the desk and slapped it off before taking a long pull. Logan didn’t object to the beer. He flicked the cap off with a swish of his claw and shotgunned it, smothering a deep, guttural belch. He threw the bottle in the wastebasket with so much force that he tipped the can over.

“Alright. M’done talkin’ Cajun. Get out.” His body was tense, muscles drawn so tightly they could twang. Remy could see the veins standing out in his jaw and neck more sharply; he was more gaunt and had deep circles under his coffee brown eyes, despite his healing factor. 

“Ya look like hell.”

“Been through hell.”

“What business were ya takin’ care of in Tokyo?”

“None of yer business. Personal.”

“Was it taken care of?”

The beer seemed to mellow him slightly. Remy instinctively, unknowingly projected quiet calm, judging and assuming nothing. He was genuinely concerned about the Canadian roughneck who sat backwards on the chair, straddled with his chest slumped against its tall back. “Gimme that.” He nodded to the remainder of Remy’s beer, which he gladly surrendered. He downed it as quickly as the first and combed his fingers through his rumpled hair. 

Strangely, Remy’s fingers itched to do the same, to run his own through those unruly, thick waves, to find out if they were as bushy and soft as they looked. Logan looked up at him sharply, as though he read his thoughts. “Why’re ya so antsy all of a sudden?”

“I ain’t antsy. Wondered how ya managed on yer trip an’ what kinda trouble ya got into.”

“The trouble ya don’t wanna piece of, Remy. Ya wanna know? Fine. I’ve got that funny feelin’ that ya ain’t gonna budge unless I ‘fess up. I had two things I had ta take care of. The first was tendin’ to a gravesite. It’s been two years, Rem. I had ta bury the woman I loved after I swore ta always protect her and guard her body an’ soul. Even worse, I had ta take her life myself ta keep her from more pain. Ya ever swallowed poison, Remy?” Remy shuddered.

“Oui.” Logan cocked on brow in surprise. “Part o’ Remy’s metabolism. One of Sinister’s ‘gifts.’ Gave Remy a tolerance for toxins the hard way.”

“Shit,” Logan muttered under his breath. “He really fucked you up, huh?” After a beat, Remy nodded. “Hurts, don’t it? Ya feel yerself shuttin’ down a piece at a time. Feel it turnin’ yer insides ta jelly, and yer mind still knows what’s goin’ on. Didn’t want that fer Mariko. She was already dyin’ in my arms, and I couldn’t watch her suffer like that. I loved her with all my fuckin’ heart, Remy.” He sat, indolently peeling the label from the bottle in long, damp streamers. “She loved white chrysanthemums. I laid a bouquet of ‘em on her grave. Lit a candle. But I ain’t a prayin’ man. God don’t want me.”

“Ain’t nobody that he don’t want, only folks he don’t know.”

“Save it. Get off yer damned soapbox.” Remy looked chastened and the awkwardness hung between them like fog. “Ya wanna know why else I went back?”

“Oui.” Remy’s voice was resigned and sad.

“Ta take my due from the man responsible. Matsuo Tsurayama. I had ta strike the killing blow, Cajun, but her blood was on his hands. So they had ta go.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Whaddya think I mean? I took one of his fingers.” Remy blanched and was glad that he hadn’t drunk much of the beer, after all. “I made him a promise. I cut away at him a little at a time, every year, til there ain’t nothin’ of him left.” Remy couldn’t fathom it, the never-ending fear and dread of having such a price hanging over their head, even though he was no stranger to having blood on his hands, albeit indirectly. He still heard the screams in the tunnels in his sleep, when he slept. A slow death wasn’t kind.

“Ya wanted ta know. Now ya can leave me be.” Logan didn’t look at him; he stared dully at the floor. His mood was calmer but still so tortured with a soul-deep exhaustion. Logan’s tomorrows wouldn’t be brighter days, and they stretched miles ahead of him. Growing older – ancient – hadn’t made him wiser, in his opinion; it just made it easier to figure out who was going to try to take what was his, obliging him that much more to kick their ass.

Remy headed for the door. “Don’t let it hit ya on the way out.” Remy sighed and turned back, shaking his head, right before he slammed it shut, then locked the knob. Logan reared up in his chair, dumbfounded. “What’d ya do that for?”

“I know ya can’t let it go…”

“Nah. I WON’T let it go; there’s a difference, genius.” Logan’s voice grew cold and more ragged. “Ya can’t make this any better, Cajun. I’m done. Ya hear me? Ya can’t put a band-aid on what I’m feelin’ right now.” But Remy felt him bristling beneath his frustration and anger, struggling to hide his loneliness and regret, so mired in self-loathing over how each killing became a little easier, how those reasons for them became a little grayer and less defined, less justified. Remy stood before him defiantly, unwilling to desert him even though Logan’s emotions tore at him and left him raw. His jaw was set and his fingers clenched at his sides.

“Remy ain’t tryin’ ta cover up what ya did, homme. Dere’s some t’ings dat ya can’t jus’ bury an’ put on de shelf. All dey do is eat a hole inside you, til ya bleed, an’ den bleed some more, til dere ain’ nut’in’ left. Don’ keep swallowin’ it down, mec.”

“Who do ya think ya are, Dr. Phil? G’wan. Go.”

Remy felt his heart quickening, a strange tension and anticipation that he couldn’t put his finger on. He was reacting sharply to Logan’s anger and the pressure and pain building in the feral’s chest. It choked him; Remy cleared his throat but still couldn’t dislodge that feeling.

“Ain’ got anywhere I gotta be.”

“Make somewhere, then!”

Remy shook his head and bridged the brief gap between them, ignoring the way Logan bristled and the way his lip peeled back slightly from his teeth. His whole upper body was drawn tight, his broad chest was a convex, rock-hard drum of muscle that heaved slightly with the effort not to murder himself a nosy thief.

“What the hell are ya-“ Remy’s hand clapped itself around his shoulder and Logan’s body immediately stiffened in response, resisting his hold. “Leggo,” he growled in warning. Remy said nothing, only fought to keep a hold on him. Bit by bit, the deep melancholy and sadness that infused Logan’s aura dissipated, replaced by white-hot anger with little to no remedy.

Logan needed to work it out of his system. Remy meant to see that he did just that, even if he ached ten ways from Sunday in the morning.

“What’s wrong with you?” Logan hissed.

“Ain’ about what’s wrong wit’ me, chere,” he shrugged, letting a hint of a smile grace his lips. “Somebody need a hug?”

“The hell I do!” Logan barked disbelievingly as he backed his chair up and jerked himself up from it. Each time Remy reached for him, he slapped his hands away. Remy wouldn’t be denied; secretly he was glad to get a rise out of him. He felt flashes of Logan’s annoyance and hints of confusion. “Back up off me!” Remy was invading his space completely, nearly chasing him around the room. The idea of it was ludicrous to Logan, that this lanky, smart-assed Cajun would get up in his grill and step to him? Remy butted his chest into his, privately appreciating how hard and solid it felt, as well as the slight, warning flare of his nostrils.

Logan was done with banter and bickering with the Cajun, if the flight of his hand through the air was any indication; Remy’s last thought was that Logan’s palm had a long lifeline with a tapered, jagged end, right before he drove it into the center of Remy’s forehead and shoved him. He snapped his head sharply with a flick of his wrist, so quickly that he almost took it off his neck. Remy’s reflexes were quicker, and he twisted his body with the momentum of the shove, managing a shaky spin that bumped him back until his ass hit the edge of the desk.

“Gon’ hafta try harder den dat, m-“ WHAP! The backhand added little insult to too much injury, really, when he thought back on it; Logan’s unyielding palm still had more cushioning than the adamantium-laced carpal bones.

Moments later, Remy wanted to scream at the little birds twittering and darting around his head to shut up. He peered up groggily at Logan, then smirked into his scowling face. Logan’s arms were crossed over his chest, hands tucked firmly against himself as though he didn’t trust himself not to hit Remy again. His breathing was uneven and he was broadcasting frustration now, mingling with his anger and confusion.

“Rem…” he rasped hoarsely, “…why’d ya do that?”

“Why’d Remy do what?” Logan looked ready to hit him again, but instead he drew back, turning from him and throwing up his hands in a defeated gesture.

“I tell him ta leave, and he stays. I tell him ta back off, and he keeps pushin’ me…” Logan’s argument to himself almost made Remy smile until he tasted something warm, salty and metallic over his lip.

“Damn,” he murmured. His tongue instinctively lapped a drop before it could fall. His voice made Logan spin on him again. But this time, before Logan could say anything else, his eyes zeroed in on Remy’s face, pausing only briefly on the sprawl of his body with it’s long limbs and taut, lean torso, or the way his chest rippled when he took those shuddering breaths to compose himself. 

Blood. Remy’s pink tongue lapped up a deep, crimson drop of his essence before it could stain his faded jeans. The act was mundane enough, but the stark red emphasized the sensual shape of Remy’s lips, the sharp, chiseled notch in the upper one and the hint of auburn stubble marring its smoothness.

Something intense and hungry crept into Logan’s dark eyes as they sized him up. His fingers twitched, then clenched as he approached Remy, glaring over him.

“Mebbe Remy t’inks dat-“

“Shut the fuck up,” Logan hissed. “’Remy don’ t’ink’ nuthin’ right now, bub.” Remy’s pupils dilated, black infringing on glowing red, and he jerked sharply in response to Logan’s fingers suddenly tangling themselves in his shirt, roughly taking a handful as he pulled him to his feet.

He knew he should have fought back. He easily could have. Remy didn’t inconveniently stop being a mutant who could level a fifty-story building simply by charging it until it exploded just because he was backhanded and roughed up a little. He wasn’t afraid of Logan, not for one minute, for any reason on God’s green earth. No matter his bluster, mood swings, anger, history of irrational behaviors and outbursts, or a roster of dead bodies that stretched behind him like the Macy’s parade, Remy had always dealt with worse. He’d aligned himself with worse, offering his fealty to killers for the right price, staining his honor as a thief. He worried briefly about the claws, but he trusted Logan enough – just this side of enough – to remember himself once he’d exerted the need to hit something, hopefully in advance of unsheathing his natural defenses.

Remy didn’t fight him or put up even a fraction of resistance when Logan jerked him against him and barked “What’s WRONG with you?” with so much force that Remy’s bangs stirred back from his face from Logan’s hot breath. He didn’t even flinch. Logan’s fingers were convulsively fisting his bunched shirt, but he wasn’t satisfied with the feel of it, even twisted tightly enough around his knuckles to make them seem like they would snap.

“Remy asked you first, chere,” he murmured. Those scarlet-stained lips twisted into a lopsided smile.

That did it. Logan had had enough. A low sound of aggravation and defeat, not unlike a dog’s whine pushed itself up from his throat, and his right hand released the shirt, gripping his jaw instead. “Chere?” Remy whispered hoarsely, feeling the shift in his emotions, suddenly flavored with something…primal…

Remy’s gasp was part broken cry as Logan’s mouth smashed against his, bringing his earlier pain into sharper focus and full bloom. His grip on his face was unyielding, but Remy’s stomach pitched and fluttered in response to the one hundred and fifty beats his heart was going per hour at the feel of Logan’s hard, hot mouth pushing at him. He nipped his lips, and Remy submitted after long, slow seconds of trying to catch his breath, but Logan stole it as he dominated their contact. He suckled Remy’s upper lip with no tenderness, seeking to drink those textures, the rough scratch of his stubble covering the smooth, firm perfection of his skin, the tang of his warm blood. Logan would hate himself, even within minutes, let alone for nights to come, but the beast in him reveled in the taste of Remy’s essence drifting fleetingly over his tongue.

Logan didn’t fight the long, wiry fingers that crept over the cords of his throat or that covered his fist, exploring his scarred knuckles. Remy’s shivers and the way he was arching into him was turning Logan on, defying what he thought he knew about himself. Remy picked up a flash of new confusion and doubt and worked quickly to squelch it.

Naw, chere. Hell, naw. Ya ain’ gettin’ ‘way from Remy dat easy. His hand slid down to ring Logan’s wrist when he would have pulled away, long fingers wrapping tightly, easily around its thickness, and Remy held him fast, urging him to take what he needed. They stumbled together, pushing into each other as they blindly navigated the obstacles in Logan’s small, stark room. Logan didn’t apologize for accidentally banging Remy back into the desk again, bruising his narrow hip; he offered groping strokes of Remy’s ass instead, an anodyne to the paltry discomfort.

“Why?” Logan grated out, breaking the three or four dozenth kiss to accuse him, pressing him with the impossible task of making sense of what happened between them. “Why’re ya makin’ me do this?” His hands demonstrated the question better than words, gripping Remy’s hips and forcing him up against him. Logan’s muscular thigh pressed itself between Remy’s, and Remy moaned in approval at the contact with his throbbing sex, shifting slightly to find that Logan was just as hard. His member twitched and jerked into Logan’s hot palm beneath the denim as he squeezed the telling bulge.

“It don’ matter,” Remy argued. “It don’ matter, homme. Hm?” He grasped Logan’s hip and ground against him, baiting him, and Logan growled, a deep, throaty sound that sent shivers down Remy’s nerve endings. “Huh, chere?” Bit by bit he wore away his resistance with the slide of his hot, smooth palms over his muscles as they snuck beneath the hem of his tank or prized his belt from his waistband. “It don’ matter, chere,” he whispered, over and over into the faintly salty cords of his neck or the curve of his ear, or as his fingers threaded themselves through Logan’s thick hair to keep from trembling. His chest pressed against Logan’s, arching into his heat, and Remy made low sounds of need in his throat.

Remy evoked the reaction he wanted and winced at the slight scratch of Logan’s fingernails as he yanked his shirt hem out of his pants and shucked it off of him. Logan wouldn’t let Remy continue his efforts at tenderness. His eyes burned with lust, but they turned hard.

“Just remember, Rem,” he intoned, resigned, “you were the one who said ‘it don’t matter.’” Remy’s empathy faltered, losing the tentative understanding between them as Logan consumed him.

Their joining was mutually rough and unrepentant. Logan’s thrusts drove into him, pounding him into the mattress and making Remy’s teeth clack together. He gave as good as he got, pressing and grinding back against his assault. Viselike, Remy’s sheathe rippled and tightened around him, pulling guttural curses and groans from him. Logan’s tormentor hid the tight, strained smile in the loft of a crumpled pillow while his muscles protested the position, despite that the sharp slope of his ass jutting up as he leaned forward on his elbows allowed him maximum sensation. Logan’s fingers threatened to bruise his firm skin as he clamped his hips and jerked him into each shunt, finding his prostate and overloading Remy’s senses with the colliding slap of their sacs. Sweat collected on their flushed skin and dripped onto hopelessly tangled sheets.

All he could feel was Logan’s determination to finish what Remy started, as though he were fulfilling an obligation, merely doing his duty. His body responded keenly to Logan’s possession of him but he grew more aware of a small, cold void inside him that distracted him from the full intensity of his pleasure. Remy’s eyes squeezed shut and his face strained as he concentrated on moving things along. He eased his hand toward his sex, pulsing and hard as he ringed it in his fist and pumped. His grunts of pleasure grew louder and Logan noticed that his hand had disappeared.

“Uh-uh,” Logan scolded, “whaddya think yer doin’?” He snaked Remy’s arm out from under him and pinned his hands over his head.

“C’mon!” Remy protested on a whine, but Logan kept his hands pinned. To mock him even further, he slowed his thrusts. “Dat ain’ right,” he complained, but Logan’s strokes were long and deep, each one ending with a perfect little snap. Logan’s breath fanned out over Remy’s neck, giving him sexy little chills. “Whaddya think yer doin’, Cajun? Huh? What’re ya tryin’ ta do?” His voice was a low, rich drawl, urging him the same way Remy had with him to just feel. One of Logan’s hands crept down to tease Remy’s abdomen. His neglected cock kept jutting up toward the brush of his hand, searching for it. Logan’s fingers teased him, alternating touches from teasing and quick to rough kneading or combing his fingers through his coarse nest. His determination to go everywhere except where Remy needed him most drove him more than a bit mad.

He was absolutely apeshit; desperation was killing him, and his erection was driving him over the edge. Logan lowered his lips to Remy’s ear, steaming it. “It don’t matter how ya beg me. Yer gonna come when I say ya can come.” He thrust harder, showing his prostate precious little mercy, and Remy’s eyes snapped open wide at the pleasure that seemed to be slowly dripping over his flesh, building up in his nervous system.

His patience had rewards as Logan now grunted and huffed his name, unable to deny the hold Remy had on him, the pleasure gripping him, literally, as he pushed himself inside his snug comfort. “Rem…y…damn it…oh, God…” His voice faltered, then deteriorated into a drawn out, shaking cry that wracked his chest. Logan acquiesced to Remy’s needs and found him, capturing him and pumping him as his own fulfillment waited for him to fall over the edge.

They didn’t linger over it, once they’d shattered. They lay at opposite sides of the bed, not mutually curled or flexed, not stroking or spooning. Remy wanted to say anything, but there was nothing, those random, unplanned words that would make this make sense were missing. They both drowsed and dozed until Remy decided to make his way back to his own room. At some point during the night, they’d run up against each other in bed long enough for Remy to wake up to the feel of Logan’s hand draped over his abdomen. For one hazy moment, he felt safe with Logan’s chest at his back.

But just for a moment.

 

*

It wasn’t Logan’s favorite kind of restaurant, but it wasn’t about him.

Appetizers were a waste of time to him. It took almost as long to wait for those as it did for the entrée itself, they were expensive, and they were a tease. But Jean was enjoying the tiny assortment of finger foods, spearing each one and dipping them in sauce.

“We hardly ever went out anymore,” Jean mentioned, for what was probably the third time that night. “I used to hate that. I’m a people person, Logan; you know that. I need to get out and about instead of holing up in the house. I swear, sometimes he hid behind those red glasses like they were an excuse. I think he just hated picking out a different shirt.”

Logan squelched a moment of guilt. He’d chosen a simple button-down shirt for himself in black, and Jean gave it her stamp of approval in the car on the way over. But his jeans were battered, not stained so much as faded in patches, here and there. He wasn’t dressed for a night out with a woman in a wicked red dress. Jean didn’t mind, though. The usual boundaries she erected between them before were gone, and she was pulling out all the stops, giving him bedroom smiles and flirting with him like she was on a reality game show.

“I was surprised to see Remy in the house on a Saturday night.”

“Eh,” Logan shrugged as he took a gulp of his Jack Daniels.

“I got so used to seeing him out with Rogue,” Jean continued. “They were such fixtures at the school. It just made sense to see them joined at the hip. He doesn’t even have Ororo to get into trouble with anymore.” Logan made no comment in that regard, either. Ororo made herself more scarce after the incident with Jeffrey, the boy Emma sheltered from the authorities at the Institute after he killed half a dozen people by stranding them on an ice floe with his teleportation powers. Ororo refused to see the “gray area” that Emma enforced as she refused to surrender him. Despite his friendship with Ororo that occasionally bordered on being “more than friends,” Logan didn’t argue with her when she chose to leave the school again and join Rogue in Valla Soleada, along with Bishop, Sage and Kitty while she was on leave from school. Once Ororo was back on her feet again, following her arduous recovery from a spinal injury, there had been little keeping her or making her sit still.

“The kid’s fine,” Logan told her blandly. He skewered a battered mushroom with a toothpick that looked absurdly dainty between his thick finger and thumb and toyed with it, in no hurry to eat it. More guilt ate at him as the memory of the hurt in Remy’s eyes came back to him. The young empath’s feelings of betrayal projected themselves after Logan as he left the foyer, even though Remy hadn’t followed them out. Logan didn’t hear him lock up until they were almost to the garage, wincing at his whispered “Merde” behind closed doors. 

Both men were grownups. He knew Remy wouldn’t make a scene, not just because they hadn’t openly announced the arrangement between them, but because Remy just wasn’t built that way. Unlike Logan, he wasn’t a loner, and Remy did care what people thought of him, but he refused to be vulnerable at the expense of letting people take advantage of him. Even though Remy liked Jean well enough, even occasionally flirting with her himself, she still made him wary. Jean was a passionate, impulsive person, a sharp contrast to Scott, who had always been the calmer, level head between them and who didn’t like having his feathers ruffled. That quality made him so much fun to bait, and in their early days as teammates, Logan had a field day with that knowledge. Did Logan see the gorgeous redhead and want to get into her pants? Sure. But was each attempt that much sweeter if he could get a rise out of Summers? Hell, yeah.

So there it was. Here he was, out with Jean. At long last, the playing field was open, and Jean wasn’t pining away waiting for Prince Charming to scoop her up and ride off with her into the sunset anymore. Who wanted Cinderella in the ashes when they could have Rapunzel, shining and spotless in the tower? Logan grunted to himself; no, Emma wasn’t spotless, but she came without drama and she was easier than remedial math. Scott and Jean had been through so much, and had so many obstacles between them, even death…several near-deaths, and every time they made it back to each others’ side. But once those obstacles were taken away, it was as though they had nothing left to fight for. That passion was gone, and they forgot what all the fuss was about. Once Jean was back to her sweet, unassuming self without giving into the heady, dark thrill of her alter ego, she was really quite boring. For Scott, the thrill was gone.

Logan suddenly wasn’t certain that Summers was wrong.

But it was comforting, listening to her laugh and seeing her charming mannerisms again, the way she tucked that one errant curl behind her ear. “Logan, you look nice.”

“Eh,” he muttered, shrugging, but his eyes crinkled.

“I feel like showing you off. Feel like ditching the movie and shaking a tailfeather instead?”

“Nah.” That was easy to shoot down. Logan didn’t dance. Period.

“Awwww, don’t be a wallflower,” she whined. 

“Ennnhhh…nah.” 

“Please?”

“Nope.”

“Pretty, pretty please?”

“No way.”

“Pretty please with beer on top?”

“Not even if it was Molson.”

The meal was well prepared. Jean was a surprisingly cheap date; he figured she would have ordered something more adventurous than the pasta if she was out to indulge herself, but he made no bones about inhaling his porterhouse. Her choice of movie was reasonable to him, The Wedding Singer, since it was less romance and more comedy, but he was still distracted. 

She retrieved his attention when her hand slipped over the armrest and landed on his thigh. She turned to him and grinned.

“Ya want more popcorn, Jeannie?” He gestured to the half-empty bucket in her lap.

“Nah,” she mimicked, experimentally stroking his taut muscle and giving him a gentle squeeze that went straight to his sex. Okay. Ain’t gonna hafta think of anymore small talk. Eh… Gently he removed her hand, but he didn’t make her keep it to herself; Logan laced his fingers through hers, and that satisfied her, for the moment. Logan didn’t even remember between that moment and the end credits.

“In the mood for a cone?” The drove past a Baskin Robbins, and there was less traffic due to the late hour, easy enough to turn at the next stoplight and go back.

“I’m fine. I’m full. Home’s fine.” Her hand drifted across the console again, and this time he didn’t stop her from stroking him, lingering this time to explore the textures of the soft denim. They chitchatted some more about Scott and her divorce proceedings, even after she sheepishly apologized for doing just that, filling his ear. Logan didn’t pretend to expect any differently from that night. Subsequent outings might yield something different, but that depended on whether a) there were subsequent outings; and b) if they called them dates.

He felt her mood shift slightly.

“Logan?”

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“Maybe…we don’t have to go home quite yet.” They stopped at the next red light, and his eyes followed her green ones to a three-story hotel with a lit-up “Vacancy” sign. Logan didn’t reply as he steered them into the small, mostly empty parking lot.

Once inside, Jean pretended interest in a rack of travel brochures while Logan checked them in, all the while wondering why his heart was hammering in his chest and how he was breaking out in a cold sweat. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done this before…please. What was he, twelve? And this was Jean. Jeannie. She starred in his wildest, darkest fantasies and invaded his dreams for so long. Even when he was in love with Mariko, he still thought of Jean, to his eternal frustration with himself. It was time to close the deal. It wasn’t rocket science. No matter how hard he tried to tell himself that she was just a friend, he knew she was crossing that line to becoming a friend with benefits from the moment that they shut the school’s front door after themselves.

A knot of guilt twisted in his gut. Not because she had chosen him over Scott…which in its own way made him indignant. Logan was having this dilemma, engaging in this argument with himself because despite Remy’s reserve, despite his pride, he felt like he was making a huge mistake.

Not because she had chosen him over Scott… Logan mulled that. The clerk eyed him expectantly, holding out the key card.

“Sir? Check-out time is nine AM.”

“Sure,” he murmured as he took the card and receipt. He murmured a brief, noncommittal response that they wouldn’t need a wake-up call as Jean took his arm. Her footsteps were somehow quicker than his as they made their way to the elevator. She didn’t jump him once the doors slid shut, instead lacing her fingers through his once again and leaning into his warmth.

The room wasn’t anything to write home about; it smelled like floral bowl cleaner and an unchanged air conditioning vent filter. Jean set down her purse and sat on the bed, leaning back and staring up at him.

“Come here,” she whispered, holding out her hand. He allowed her to pull him close, and if she was disappointed that he wasn’t automatically all over her, ravaging her and tearing off her clothes, she didn’t show it. Logan had always assumed when they finally reached this time and place, that all bets were off, that he would make love to her until she forgot her own name, and to hell with Summers, or the consequences. His touch was reverent and gentle as he bowed his head to kiss her, slowly and deeply, a complete departure from brief, rough tastes he’d stolen of her before. His fingers wrapped around her hair, bunching it up and giving him access to her neck, and she shivered, moaning for him as he laved her flesh. She smelled sweet from her perfume and from her natural, delicate feminine pheromones, something he’d always enjoyed about Jean. Slowly they edged back from the end of the mattress as Jean scooted back and urged him to cover her.

Minutes later her dress lay in a puddle by the foot of the bed, soon joined by Logan’s shirt. Jean was moaning and whimpering his name, running her hands over him and appreciating his burliness, the coarse mat of hair on his chest and the way his shoulder muscles bunched and rippled beneath her palms. Logan was aroused, but his mind kept drifting back to Remy. Jean captured his hand and covered her breast with it, wanting him to touch her through the slick red satin.

They were nothing like Remy’s flat, tannish-pink nipples that pebbled into hard, tiny knots beneath his tongue, ultrasensitive and responsive. Remy was responsive and made love like he was starving for Logan, despite a rule that Logan imposed shortly after their second encounter: No kisses.

It made the illusion that they were “only friends” easier to believe…

*

 

Remy’s music still played, and he’d abandoned the cards after several dozen games once he’d begun to miss the hat with his shots. He wasn’t in the mood for solitaire or a round of pool downstairs. Despondent, he lay in the dark, toying with the hem of the pillowcase beneath his head. He knew he wasn’t locked in his room and grounded, and his feet weren’t broken. He could go out, too, easily. He didn’t have to linger in his own cold, lonely bed, and to hell with the feral Canadian. Right? They were just friends.

Wrong.

Every time they gave into those urges and he found himself in Logan’s bed, or wherever they were that their clothes ended up lying on the ground, Remy stole snatches of impressions of Logan’s emotions, and whenever they spoke now, he heard the things he didn’t say. Whenever he nagged him about things like how he was taking up too much space on the couch with his long legs, he’d come back, muttering gruffly about how Remy hadn’t even had the sense to bring a blanket with him into the den, spreading it over him when he looked cold. When he teased him about his long hair, it preceded running his fingers through it, even when he claimed Remy needed a trim.

Conversations between them began to gather more depth, occasionally taking on a pot-calling-the-kettle-black childishness. Logan accused Remy of only wanting what he couldn’t have with Rogue, as if the same didn’t apply to Jean, or even to Mariko as he kept his distance for her safety. Remy thought Logan had damsel-in-distress syndrome, wanting delicate women that he could rescue, yet didn’t Remy hold Ororo in the same regard? Sometimes these chats took place over a six-pack; sometimes they happened in the Danger Room and inspired knock-down, drag-outs that turned into rough sex.

But there were no kisses. It kept what was between them from being sacred or too deep.

Remy hated it.

 

*

It nagged at Logan until he found the words tumbling out of his mouth that threatened to ruin this long-awaited opportunity.

“Jeannie…wait. Wait.”

“What?” Her lips were puffy from his kisses and her eyes were confused. He replaced her bra slap, sliding it back up into place. His dick throbbed against her softness, still safely wrapped in her satin panties. She experimentally ground herself up against the rough crotch seam and fly of his jeans until he stopped her, holding her hips.

His lips were a thin line. “Jeannie…I’m sorry. This is weird.”

“What’s weird? There’s nothing ‘weird.’” She sounded slightly exasperated. Logan sighed.

“It’s just…I don’t know what ta say.” He eased off of her and sat up, turning his back to her. “I thought I wanted this.” She stiffened, sitting up and making a sound of annoyance.

“You thought? Didn’t seem like you were overthinking this a few minutes ago.” The haze of lust dwindled away between them, and Logan felt his body slowly readjusting to the stark reality. Jean was staring at him as she stood, pert and curvy in nothing but her unmentionables, and she tossed her hair back over her shoulder. The gesture spoke volumes. He’d pissed her off, but her face said See what you’re missing. “Logan…I don’t get it. I mean…you’ve always wanted me. Since we’ve met. So why the cold feet?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, hating the words. “I really don’t.” There was a long silence between them. She turned her back on him and folded her arms forlornly, wallowing in rejection.

“Did…did I talk about Scott too much?”

“Nah. That ain’t it.”

“Then-“

“That ain’t all of it. It’s just…we’re goin’ though the motions. Ya don’t want me. Not really. At least, not me, for me.” He’d finally put his finger on it. It made sense now.

Remy wanted him. Baggage and all.

For Remy and Rogue, that ship had already sailed. She’d already passed judgment on him and abandoned him once. The porcelain could be glued back together once it broke, but the cracks would still show. Remy wasn’t with Logan to say “In your face!” to a past love or as a distraction. He wasn’t in it to take anything from Logan…except his pain.

That thought sent Logan scrambling up from the mattress in search of his shirt. “Jeannie?” he murmured.

“What?”

“Get yer clothes on.”

*  
You went with another man  
And I cried when I read your letter  
But I don’t really want to know  
Where you’ve gone  
Or if it was better, yeah yeah

 

Remy stuck with his CDs, eventually moving on to Johnny Cash and Nine Inch Nails, even some Evanescence before he returned back to Lenny, shuffling it in the carriage of his stereo. He hummed the lyrics and swayed to it with his eyes closed.

He could have gone out clubbing. Remy loved to dance. But for now, he was fine right here. If he laid down and let the music wash over him, it would keep his brain busy enough that he could drift off to sleep.

He was stirred by the sound of Charles’ BMW pulling into the garage. Dread filled his gut.

What if Logan retired to Jean’s room for the night? What if Remy saw them exchanging smug, satisfied looks the next morning across the breakfast table?

Would Logan actually tell him it was over? Would he just let things wither between them, back to what they were, even though there was no such animal? Would Remy have to spell it out, draw him out? His heart skipped and he felt sick. Remy heard Jean’s footsteps enter the foyer first; he recognized the sound of a pair of stiletto heels when he heard it. It puzzled him that Logan’s heavier, booted footfalls weren’t right behind his. Several minutes ticked by, and he wondered why he didn’t hear Logan getting out of the elevator or climbing the stairs.

Remy’s night vision was sharp enough for him to navigate the corridors without turning on any of the sconces of leaving his own lamp on for himself. He took the elevator, unwilling to see if he was wrong, if Logan really had already gone to Jean’s suite. He couldn’t torture himself with the sight of those Ropers disappearing inside her door, of hearing her giggles or his rusty, low rumble of laughter drifting out into the hall. Remy was in the mood for a beer and the last half a bag of Ruffles stuffed in the back of the cabinet. The Tim Burton marathon might still be on, he mused.

He didn’t expect to see the kitchen fully lit or to hear the clink of bottles as someone separated one from the plastic fastener and set it down on the counter. Scratch that; two bottles. Logan looked up at the sound of Remy’s bare footsteps, where he lingered in the doorframe. “Hey.”

“Bon nuit,” Remy offered. “Didn’ close de bars?”

“Wasn’t in the mood ta be out that late. Whatsamatter, I didn’t stay out long enough for ya?” Logan busied himself with retrieving the chips from the cupboard. Remy opened the bottles of Molson and sat on the stool beside the pine island. “Don’t sit yet.”

“I wuz jus’ down here ta grab a snack.”

“We’ll have it upstairs.” Remy nodded, and he followed Logan quietly from the kitchen and back into the elevator. When they reached their floor, Logan looked surprised that Remy was heading for his own room. “Where ya goin’?”

“Left my stereo on.” Instead of suggesting the Logan wait at his room, Remy merely returned to his. He made up his mind that he wouldn’t gallop into Logan’s first chance. Remy had waited; Logan could wait, too.

Logan had other plans. He came inside Remy’s suite and clicked the door shut behind him. “What’re ya listening to?”

“An old CD.”

“It’s kinda depressing,” Logan muttered. “Ya got anything else?”

“I like dis guy. Lemme get another song.” Remy hit the remote, forwarding it to I Belong to You. Logan grunted.

“Ain’t much of an improvement.”

“Remy’s house, Remy’s rules,” he countered, shrugging. He took a long pull of his Molson. In close quarters, Remy could smell the hint of Jean’s perfume lingering on Logan’s clothing and blanched. “Am I keepin’ ya from anyt’in’?”

“Nah.”

“Sure looks like it.”

“Can’t always trust yer eyes.” Logan set the chips down on the bedside table and downed half of his beer, eyeing Remy around the bottle’s long neck. He sucked an amber drop of liquid from his lip.

“Did mademoiselle have an early day?”

“Nah.” Logan had the audacity to begin unbuttoning his shirt. “I told her I had somewhere else I had ta be.” Remy’s eyes demanded answers. “My legs are fuckin’ stiff from that movie seat.” Remy could take him to task for making assumptions, but he squelched that voice inside him. Logan’s low, rumbling words and inviting body were undoing his resolve.

“Then take a load off.” Remy nodded to the bed. Logan eased down with a groan of relief, and Remy knelt before him, reaching for his leg. He tugged on Logan’s boot with both hands, pulling it off with a sharp grunt. He repeated the process and shucked his socks while Logan paused in the act of unbuttoning his shirt cuffs to watch him, soberly.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’ mean what?”

“That ya were just a friend.”

“Ain’ de same kinda friend Jeannie is,” Remy admitted.

“Ya sure the hell ain’t,” Logan informed him. There was something burning in his eyes that Remy just this once couldn’t read.

“Ya sure Remy ain’t keepin’ ya from anyt’in’?” Indignance and jealousy were still rearing their ugly heads.

“Whadda you think?” Logan snorted. His hand fisted in the neckline of Remy’s tank top and he smothered Remy’s words with his lips. The kiss was rough and possessive, bringing the taste of Jack and steak with it and the heady scratch of Logan’s stubble. Remy moaned in surprise, which turned into pleasure when Logan’s hand cupped his nape, then combed through the back of his soft, thick hair. He went with it, re-exploring the contours and planes of Logan’s – of his lover’s – body, growing lost in his heat as Logan pulled him flush against his bulk, hands clamped around his narrow hips. He wanted to demand explanations and apologies but not when Logan was groaning with need and satisfaction at how good Remy felt and tasted and making short work of his clothes.

“Shower,” Remy murmured as he pulled Logan to his feet. Moments later, steam filled the bathroom and Remy cleansed away Jean’s scent from Logan’s skin slowly, languorously with a bar of plain, white Dove soap. He lingered over it; lather, rinse, repeat. Logan tasted his pulse and counted his heartbeats as he soaped his chest.

“I didn’t know ya were gonna wait up.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Remy didn’t lay blame, even though Logan deserved it. On some level, he knew he should make him work harder for it and not let him off the hook, but he craved him. The moment was his. The night was his. Remy could ponder the logic of bringing Logan back to his bed and their “no strings” relationship once they spelled out the strings, and once he decided how willing he was to overlook his U-turn to Jean.

Their attempts at drying off were cursory and brief. Sweat soon mingled with the water droplets glistening on their backs as they met on the bed in a tangle of limbs. The urgency his failed joining with Jean lacked prevailed now. Remy practically attacked him once her offending fragrance was gone. He had to cleanse Logan of her essence now, and of misplaced intentions. Remy rolled Logan to his back, earning him a grunt of surprise.

“Okay,” he panted, unsure of the calculating look that entered his eyes. 

“Gonna do dis my way,” he told him, giving Logan one hard, drugging kiss.

“Yer house. Yer rules.” Logan complied by tucking his hands beneath the pillow supporting his head. Remy’s eyes, luminous rubies in his darkened room, descended slowly as he began his torment. Thief’s fingers teased him, mapping out his muscles and tendons. His lips and hot breath misted over Logan’s nipples, making him arch up toward his heat, but Remy wasn’t having it. He pushed his chest down and waggled his finger at him. “Nuh-uh, chere.”

“C’mon…feels good, Cajun,” he pleaded, jutting his hips at him. Logan was hard and throbbing. A drop of precum glistened in the crease of his swollen head. Remy dragged his fingertip through it and tasted it, wanting to laugh at the frustrated growl that escaped Logan’s lips.

“Remy lost sleep, wonderin’,” he reminded him.

“I know,” Logan admitted, chastened. Remy took slow, cruel umbrage by caressing him everywhere but where he needed it most, molesting him where he was most ticklish like his navel or the pits of his knees. Logan turned his head into the spare pillow and buried his teeth in it, huffing a helpless laugh that was half-moan. More precum leaked from him when Remy lapped a path down his supple calf and drew his big toe into his mouth. “That…ain’t…fair…brat! Quit it!”

“Non?” He lifted and bent Logan’s leg and rested his heel in the center of his chest, situating him comfortably before he mouthed each toe, darting the tip of his tongue between each in a teasing swivel. Logan’s member bobbed and twitched in response to each lap. Remy gradually took mercy – little mercy – on him, nipping his ankle, gently dragging his teeth along the contour of his calf. “Don’ like dis, chere?”

“Oh, God,” Logan rasped. His body convulsed in pleasure as his body’s sharp, enhanced sense of touch went into overdrive. Remy massaged the long, dense muscle of his inner thigh, almost to the point of tickling but just enough to stimulate that nerve, then painted it with his velvety tongue as he let his leg down by degrees. It was satisfying to see Logan’s head thrown back, cords of his neck straining and his eyes squeezed shut in pleasure and restlessness. Remy was aroused just from watching him, touching his heated flesh, even though the troubled thought beat like a tattoo in his head that kept this from being perfect.

She can’t make you feel dis way. Not de way I can, chere. She can’ take care of you de way Remy can. He would be Logan’s lover but not Jean’s rival for him. His dick reminded him peevishly, Worry about dat shit tomorrow, mec. Logan strained up into the pillow, nearly ramming against the headboard when Remy gently lifted his ball sac and flicked his tongue over his taint. The skin was silky and tasted slightly musky, and Remy moaned his approval into his flesh, letting the vibrations of his voice rumble against his crease. Logan’s legs opened more widely, legs bending and hips thrusting up to give him more room. His neglected cock was an angry red, begging to be touched in the slightest, imbibed, imbedded, buried, swallowed, SOMETHING…but Remy took his sweet time, all the while projecting his emotions. Logan tasted his relief and that hint of wariness, as well as the easy, comfortable pleasure of being in the moment that wrapped around him like a warm blanket. So his body relaxed as he let Remy worship his body.

Previous encounters between them were callously rough and rushed, most of the time, and less emotionally involved. Logan felt Remy…truly felt him this time, humbled by the detachment that he’d thrust upon him before as a means of self-preservation. And Remy had let him, without saying a word.

He needed to have a discussion with him about that…

Remy paused when he heard Logan’s hand scrabbling for something on his bedside table. “Quoi?”

“Lube,” Logan muttered, voice strained.

“What if Remy ain’ done wit’ you yet?”

“I’m the one’s gonna be done in a minute if ya don’t quit that, darlin’,” Logan warned. The pet name tickled Remy, briefly. He gave a ragged sigh at being interrupted before he got to the good stuff. Logan would have argued with him that the good stuff would have given him a heart attack. Remy eased off of him, and Logan’s body protested the loss of his warm weight. His dick twitched, and he shuddered. He heard Remy rummaging for something in his medicine cabinet. He returned with a small, clear bottle with a purple cap. Remy couched himself between Logan’s thighs and poured a generous amount of slick into his palm, then reached for Logan’s member, invitingly large and stiff.

He wasn’t expecting Logan’s hand to clamp around his to stop him. There was something desperate gleaming in his dark eyes as he leaned up onto his elbows. “Not there, Remy.”

“Chere?” Remy’s brows drew together. Logan took his wrist and showed him where he wanted his hand, drawing it down to his crease. Remy stroked his leathery sac as the light went on in his head, and a hint of a smile graced his lips. His fingers slid down, stroking him, and moved into his tender crease. “You want dis?”

“I want you.” Remy nodded, kissed the crest of Logan’s knee, then bowed his head to his sex, at long last. White-hot pleasure filled Logan’s core as Remy’s talented mouth lapped and suckled him while his hand probed the tiny, sensitive pucker, easing his entry with the oil. Logan was tight as a vise and he squeezed his muscles around Remy’s digits, making him fear for his comfort, but Logan was groaning and cursing, and his thighs went taut as he dug his heels into the mattress to thrust up his hips. Logan’s length throbbed inside Remy’s snug, hot mouth while he thrust his hand more deeply into his sheathe. A second finger joined the first, flexing, twisting, then scissoring to prepare him. It was heady, being in control of Logan’s pleasure, and Remy couldn’t wait much longer to claim him. 

Logan’s skin broke out in a sheen of sweat while Remy’s touch did mad, wicked things to him. His abdominal muscles stood out in stark relief, drawn tight as a drum, and his nipples were hard, sharp little knots. Logan was panting, ignoring the music still drifting in the background until he noticed that the rhythm of Remy’s thrusts began to mimic the low, smooth beats. “Please,” he whispered. “Please…” Remy’s fingertips reached his prostate, stroking it, bringing Logan too close to the edge. “Damn it, Remy,” he choked. His toes were curling, for fuck’s sake. He needed release. He needed Remy to finish what he started.

He needed Remy.

The fingers retreated and Logan gave a strangled cry as Remy filled him with a single thrust. Logan adjusted to the feeling of being filled and stretched as Remy began to move, couching Logan’s erection between them and slowly letting the friction build. The music dictated his thrusts, and Remy’s body was a sleek, rippling machine, pistoning in and out of Logan’s constricting sheathe. All the while, Remy projected his emotions, flooding Logan with everything he had. The strongest feeling was gratitude, whether at the change in their bedroom dynamic or at the fact that Logan came back to him, he couldn’t guess.

“Sexy, chere,” Remy whispered, descending for a thorough, consuming kiss. He’d missed the privilege sorely, and Logan moaned in agreement. Logan’s heels bounced off his back and Logan reached down to speed things along, ringing himself in his fist. Remy blocked his attempt, taking the task away from him as he gripped him instead, pumping and slicking his plump head with more of the precum that continued to flow from the tiny slit. “Tell me how ya like dat, chere.”

“Oh, God,” Logan rasped, trying to cover Remy’s hand with his.

“Tell me. Tell me ya like it when Remy does dis, like dis,” he urged, pounding into him, “or like dis.” He slowed, making his thrusts long and smooth.

“Cajun…!”

“Say my name,” he demanded, grinding into him now, letting their bellies rub Logan’s erection between them. It was maddening torture.

“Remy…!”

“Can’t hear ya, chere!”

“Remy! Remy! REMY! REMY!” Each chant of his name sped Remy’s hips, and Logan began to see colors behind his closed eyes. He thrust and pounded into him, claiming him and bringing them both to glorious release.

“Dat’s it, chere, say Remy’s name…wan’ y’so bad, chere…Dieu…Dieu…” His climax hit him, zeroing in on his lower spine and spreading out to his nerve endings. Logan’s voice filled the room with broken, strangled curses and Remy’s name as his seed erupted from him in hot, sticky gushes. Remy was shuddering above him, jerking and spasming as he found his own fulfillment, and his seed flooded Logan’s insides with luscious heat.

They both collapsed, limp and replete. Their panting underscored the music as the disc changed to the next in the carriage. Slowly their limbs stretched, knotted muscles relaxing as they settled against each other. Fingers stroked jawlines and threaded through tangled hair. Red-on-black eyes stared into coffee brown.

“Stay, chere.” His voice wasn’t pleading, but Logan heard the questions in it.

“Only if ya do one thing.”

“Quoi?”

“Tuck me in.” Logan drew him down for a tender, lazy kiss that promised that no such thing would happen until closer to dawn.

FIN.


End file.
